


The Art of Eye Contact

by thatstupidmansuit



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- serial killers, Attempted Murder, Blood, Blood and Injury, But also not, Corpses, George has a Thing about eyes, George maybe has sadist tendencies, Kissing, Knife Play, Knives, M/M, Miscommunication, Murder, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Serial killer George, Some angst eventually, That Awkward Moment where you have a crush on your best friend, Violence, and you think he returns your feelings, borderline a horror rom-com, but Unsafe, but covers it up with Awkwardness and Polite Smiles, but he really really wants to kill you, it's George's turn to be unhinged in the most awkward way possible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatstupidmansuit/pseuds/thatstupidmansuit
Summary: He couldn't help the way he glanced from Clay's stupidly colored eyes to the half tied-up, dirty blonde hair. Why did they have to be that color? They could have been any other combination. Why did the universe literallydespise him?And of all the unspoken questions pinging around in his head, one was loudest.How the fuck was he supposed to avoid killing his best friend?
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off, this is not a reflection of the CC's, whatever, whatever, you know the song and dance. It's just a fic. These are more character than people. Etc, etc. 
> 
> And to preface, the reason George in this knows someone's eyes are green and not burnt yellowy brown or just really watered down blue is cause,,, have you ever met anyone with green eyes? They literally tell you they have green eyes the _moment_ it comes up in conversation. 
> 
> He would memorize that shit on rota and be able to clock green eyes within a single instance of eye contact after the fifth green-eyed person he knew explained their eyes weren't just blue-grey or hazel, they're _grEeN_. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy(?).

As his last kill of the month, he had wanted it to go out with a bang. He had promised himself that once he got to Florida, he would keep his hands to himself, play the goody two shoes and the doe-eyed best friend. It was meant to be a pleasant week in the armpit of the States and he couldn't messy it all up by doing something so silly as killing someone while he was there. 

It would be rude to Clay to ruin his visit like that anyway. 

He swiped the knife clean against a cut-off square of linen, red eating up the white as he methodically scrubbed it, a splash of diluted bleach helped the process, and when he finished he dropped the rag in the sink. The hiss of a match igniting rent the air and the hum of the dancing flame pricked at his ears. It illuminated the otherwise pitch black kitchen for a moment, before he dropped it. He watched the fabric blacken and curl, the stench crouching on his tongue and wrinkling his nose. When it was mostly smoldering pieces and threads he plugged up the stopper and filled the sink, swirled the remnants into an incomprehensible and unrecognizable slurry, and then let it wind down the drain when he was sure nothing could be properly salvaged.

Used the diluted bleach mixture to swipe down every surface he had touched and even ones he hadn't, replaced the cleaned knife back into the chopping block, and swept his way out of the kitchen. The living space unfurled pristine and untouched before him, except for the man on the couch. Propped up and sat like he had been catching the latest game on the telly, and if it weren't for the red stains blossoming over his chest like a bouquet, he might even look alive. 

Patrick Fores had the rather unlucky combination of green eyes and blonde hair. A misfortune for the deceased maybe, but a fortunate development for him, as he had run into him at the foot of a bar and hadn't forgotten him. And he had never quite seen eyes like his, all pucey forest and burnt, like pines and the filter of sunlight through leaves. Even if green didn't look the same way it did to other people, he _always_ knew when someone's eyes were green. Never dark enough to be brown, never bright enough to be truly blue, and he could always see the blue ones so clearly. No, it was like a sheet of old time-bitten parchment, acidic and intoxicating in its venom. 

And the way they had watered, turned glassy and filmy with tears, wide-eyed, pupils blown until they ate up the iris. He had thought maybe if he looked hard enough he'd see himself reflected in the inky pits. Now they were dull, lifeless, useless to him, and with his work here finished, he cleaned up the rest of his little stage and left through the front door like he had never been there in the first place. 

No cameras and no security tracked his exit. It was the kind of place young twenty-somethings shacked up in more for affordability and less for liveablity, and the perfect setting to get away with almost anything. 

Blocks away, stood under the lazy blink of a crosswalk, waiting for it to tick over to the crossing signal, he pulled his phone from his pocket and opened Discord. 

_'hey, hope your flight tonight goes well :)'_

He smiled and tapped his thumb against the screen. _'Aw, r u worried about me👉👈?'_

_'more like worried about that plane. rip whoever has to sit next to you and listen to you snore.'_

He rolled his eyes. _'U literally don't even know if I snore.'_

_'you seem like a snorer.'_

_'How????'_

_'idk, you just got those vibes'_

_'I will literally cancel my flight I swear to god.'_

_'you wouldn't'_

_'Mm ur right.'_

_'simp.'_

_'Shut up u sound like sapnap.'_

_'ew dont say that.'_

_'Then don't drop s*mp in my Dms.'_

_'cant help it if it's the truth 😔'_

The sidewalk passed under his feet, the concrete damp and dewey with a fresh coat of rain, and he was grateful that the puddles would wash out any carpet fibers or other evidence from the grooves of his boots. Rain splashed and beaded against his phone's screen as well and he had to pocket it in favor of pulling up the hood of his jacket. Home loomed quaint and small ahead of him, the joint flat in all it's rickety and aged glory stood skinny and sandwiched just off the street between the straight-backed, soldiered stance of the buildings beside it. 

The night blurred by in the rythmic pass of street lights, the hum and bustle of the airport, the purr and rumble of a plane engine, and the bumping jolt and arrival of it on tarmac. 

Waiting for everyone to gather their luggage and file off the plane was always somehow worse than waiting in customs. Worse than answering the odd questions required to enter the States and having his passport held up and compared to him in an embarrassing moment that reminded him to update his photo, until finally he was freed out into the thralls of the Orlando International Airport alongside the rest of the foreigners. 

The inside of the place looked like an amusement park had thrown up on it. Carpet tacky and smelling like some kind of mold and the accumulation of years of dust, fake plants lining and chopping up sections of the terminal. Mickey mouse and the whole gang emblazoned the walls outside a store that he presumed was meant to replace the actual experience of stepping foot into Disney World. It was rather an odd experience to say the least.

He checked his phone, a message from Clay sitting unanswered. 

_'hey, Ill be in the main lobby, at the bottom of the hotel rooms, you'll know it when you see it. it's where most people sit when they're waiting for someone to get through customs'_

It had been sent a bit ago, meaning Clay had probably arrived earlier than he needed to and George couldn't help but smile fondly at the notion. 

_'Just got through, think I'm here but not sure????'_

The reply that followed was nearly instantaneous. _'uh shit. one sec i was grabbing something to eat heading back now. I'll find you._

_'If you send a pic of your face then I'll know what to look for ;).'_

_'haha nice try'_

He glanced off to the side. Clay was vehemently stubborn about not taking any pictures of himself. To the point it was nearly neurotic in nature. He had known him for over a year now, and not once had he seen more than a hand or a pair of shoes from him. But he had plenty of pictures of Clay's cat, that was for sure. Admittedly, Patches was a sweetheart who deserved the whole world so he couldn't really complain.

George meandered around the main lobby area, picking over the ads and the signs encircling the seating like guardrails, and he wondered how one state could have so many ads for orange juice and amusement parks. He scanned the faces milling about as well, glimpsed any number of strangers, some enraptured by their phones, others meeting his eyes and holding his gaze or quickly looking away. None of them seemed to recognize him though. And he had sent Clay enough selfies to fill a scrapbook or two, enough that Clay would know who, of all these passerbys, was him. 

It was his second circuit around the area, hands buried in his pockets, luggage long abandoned beside a potted plant and headphones over his ears that he felt a tap on his shoulder. He tugged the headphones down to his neck and turned, grin already plastered wide as he looked up and-- 

Bright, dangerous, muddy amber-yellow and tinted at the edges like the singe of burnt paper; Clay's eyes were _green_. They were green and he had never told him. 

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey," Clay chuckled, in that breathless and nervous little way he used to when they first started doing voice chats over Discord. 

George mustered every ounce of self control he had to slam the _normal human person_ button and pretend he wasn't still reeling on his ass from the fact Clay had blonde hair, green eyes, and everything George had marked down as potential prey for himself.

This was... not good. Not amazing. Less than ideal. And Clay was his best friend, he was-- But god, the more he stared at the tinge of his irises, he wasn't sure how much that meant to him. 

"Uh…" Clay scratched at the back of his neck, shifting his weight. 

"Shit, sorry--" George blinked, fidgeting with his headphones for lack of anything better to do with them when they itched to do something rather unholy with a knife. "Uh, just never seen all of you before, it's a lot to take in."

"Hope you don't mean a lot in a bad way." 

"No, no--" He laughed, trying to smooth out his fuck up. "It's a good a lot. A great a lot." 

" _George_ , you can't just flirt with me in the middle of the airport." Clay said, mock exasperated. 

"Oh my god, you wish." 

They lapsed into an awkward silence, George playing a game where he looked literally anywhere but Clay's eyes-- And he just had to have blonde hair too, didn't he? God, the universe hated him so much, it wasn't even funny. 

"Uh, it's a bit weird to--" Clay started, cutting himself off. 

"To finally see you in person?" George finished.

"Yeah, I was gonna say that." 

"Yeah…" He couldn't help the way he glanced from Clay's stupidly colored eyes to the half tied-up, dirty blonde hair. Why did they have to be that color? They could have been any other combination. Why did the universe _literally_ despise him? 

And of all the unspoken questions pinging around in his head, one was loudest: _How the fuck was he supposed to avoid killing his best friend?_

"Well, uh, instead of just standing around in the airport like a couple of idiots, did you wanna see more of the city maybe?" 

"Sure." 

They left the terminal, Clay leading him to the car park, and the humidity smacked him like a slap to the face just outside the climate-controlled environment of the airport. It wasn't new, the streets he usually roamed always dewey and a bit damp, but this was like he had stuck his head into a dryer after pausing it mid-cycle and decided to breath in. It stuck and clung to his throat and tickled his nose, and he realized he had overdressed for the weather rather quickly as sweat beaded under his jacket. 

Thankfully, the trek to Clay's car was short, and he practically leaped for the door, only barely remembering that the driver's side was flipped before he embarrassed himself. The inside was somehow still muggy and he tapped his fingers against his jeans, waiting for Clay to turn on the aircon and save him from the heat. He had never wanted to make out with the vent system of a car, but he considered making an exception for the blissful brush of cool air that immediately caressed his face. 

He shimmied out of his hoodie, headphones falling into his lap in the process, and he fumbled for them, still half-tangled in the offending fabric. 

"Uh, do you need some help?" 

He wrenched it all the way off, hair mussed up and fallen into his eyes, and he looked over at Clay, and he didn't miss the way his eyes (his stupid fucking green eyes) glanced down, back up to his tousled hair, while the faintest hint of color stained his cheeks. Unsure what had warranted such a reaction, he looked down to see his shirt had hiked up in his unfortunate battle with his jacket and shown more skin then he would have liked. He tugged it back down. 

If he had been more of a betting man, he would have wagered that Clay had been blushing because of him. 

He threw that idea out, balled up his hoodie and shoved it somewhere around his feet. Seatbelt clicked into place and all the vents pointed squarely at him, he was ready for wherever their journey took them. And he _wasn't_ thinking about how it would be so easy-- It would be so easy to let Clay take him home, find his way to the kitchen drawer, or wherever it was that Clay kept his knives, to wait until he was asleep, clamber over him, and find out how many cuts it took before he could turn those eyes watery and scared-- 

He grimaced and shook his head. Clay wasn't just some random he had encountered on the street. So what if he had the exact eyes and hair? So what if George itched to card his fingers through the strands and find out how hard he had to pull to tear them from his scalp? It was fine. The appearance didn't maketh the man and all that or some other nonsense. 

He could totally get around the issue. It was just a hair and eye color! It didn't suddenly erase all the other stuff between them. George glanced over at Clay, the Florida sun glinting off the wisps of hair that hadn't been caught up in the little man bun, and god, he had never wanted to see someone's hair drenched in blood so bad in his entire life. 

He chewed at his thumb nail, stared at the road, and tried to think about literally anything else. 

"Uh," Clay cleared his throat, finger tapping on the steering wheel. "I thought maybe we could stop to get some food before heading back to my place." 

"Yeah, I'm... Jet lag's rough, but I'm up for something to eat." 

And there it was, looming in the distance. The decision he would have to make the moment he crossed over the threshold. Clay would invite him in regardless, not knowing he was like the bloodsuckers from old stories. If Clay only knew, he wouldn't even let George sit next to him in this car, let alone slink his way into his home. The internet was insidious like that, you never knew who you were extending your hand to, until something like him grabbed it. 

George glanced over at Clay, nails running over the grooves of his headphones, wrapped snugly around his neck again, and he thought about running them over the seams of cuts and into the warm give of weeping flesh. And Clay was pale, paler than he had thought he might be, considering he lived in Florida. Blood would shine like silk against him, pool like wine in the grooves of his collar bones and the divets of his ribs-- 

He scrubbed at his face. Normal people didn't think about killing their best friend. Normal people didn't ponder over how to do it, what to use, where to cut, how long he would draw it out-- Normal people didn't see blonde hair and green eyes and think, _'I have to'_. They probably just thought, _what a neat color combination_ , or something equally boring. 

Normal people definitely didn't have their heart pick up pace under their sternum at the thought of their best friend's eyes brimming and spilling over with tears. 

Yeah… _Normal people._ Just. Like. Him. 

He realized he had been staring a bit too long, lingering on the side of Clay's face with the scrutinizing stare of a butcher considering the crop of a pig's fat, when Clay glanced over. The way Clay pretended that he hadn't noticed made him raise a brow, the man's face tinged a faint pink again. And if he blushed this easily, he wondered if his face would flush even darker when he cried. 

George kneaded at his eyes. Jesus, this was going to be a long week.


End file.
